


you do not have a butcher's hands

by AKL



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Ethical Dilemmas, Gen, Hurt, Philosophy, Post-Game, Religious Conflict, comfort? debatable, everyone except for altaïr and malik are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28931811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKL/pseuds/AKL
Summary: Al Mualim did not kill him. And now, Altaïr realizes, he was not worthy of such a mercy. Not then. But mercy is hardly what was on the grandmaster’s mind. If Al Mualim had been serving the Brotherhood’s best interests he would have slain Altaïr where he stood. He supposes, then, in a way… he’s lucky the old man was a traitor.
Relationships: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad & Rashid ad-Din Sinan | Al Mualim, Malik Al-Sayf & Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	you do not have a butcher's hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [incalyscent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/incalyscent/gifts).



  
  
  


_ “Make humble your heart, child, or I swear I will tear it from you with my own hands.”  _

That was what Al Mualim had said; on the first day of his betrayal, on the last day of Altaïr’s. 

* * *

  
  


It’s fitting that the final gift his mentor gave him was a scar. Some would argue that Al Mualim’s final gift had been the Apple, but Altaïr knows otherwise - he had to peel the Apple out of the old man’s dying hands. It was not willingly given. 

How the grandmaster’s words twisted back to bite him. 

But worst of all, Altaïr thinks, is the fact that Al Mualim wasn’t wrong in stabbing him. It might have been the last good thing he ever did for the Brotherhood. 

* * *

  
  


The sky bleeds spotty reds and velvet blues. The river creeps silent in the gulch, the wind howls like a mournful beast. Still, the air is warm, the water is fresh, and Altaïr’s companion is a trustworthy one. 

“How long,” Altaïr asks him, the unfamiliar noose of hesitance strangling at his words, “was I asleep for after Al Mualim stabbed me?” 

Malik leans back against the fortress wall, plucking de-shelled pistachios from the wooden bowl sitting between them and flicking them into his mouth. “It is hard to say,” he replies around the food in his cheek, an idleness in his voice that Altaïr would scarcely have expected considering the subject. “Long enough for my arm to have healed, more or less. Long enough to have grieved Kadar.” 

Altaïr can’t help but wince. “I’m sorry,” he tells him. It seems that every time the events of the Solomon Temple are brought up Altaïr is compelled to apologize. He doubts the guilt cutting heavy and cold through his gut will ever leave. It  _ was  _ his fault, no matter how many times Malik reminds him he’s changed - Altaïr will never be able to undo what he’s done. 

Malik rolls his eyes. “You have that look on your face.” 

“What look?” 

“The one you always wear when I speak of Kadar’s death, or of my arm. I have  _ forgiven  _ you, Altaïr. You have no reason to torture yourself.” Malik sighs, tossing a pistachio to the carrier pigeon gawking at them from a nearby ledge. “Do the novices not cause you enough pain?” 

“I could ask the same of you,  _ Rafiq.”  _

Malik snorts. “How could they, when I am so used to dealing with you?” 

Altaïr tries to steel his face into something more impassive, though he knows it’s useless. Malik could read him like a book if he wanted to. 

“Try not to worry so much, Altaïr.” Malik’s head turns to look out over the courtyard. “It would be no secret if I still resented your presence.” 

* * *

  
  


The sand is coarse beneath the leather of his boots; grinding like the teeth of a wounded animal. 

The Templar facing him snarls something that sounds like an insult, and Altaïr curls his lip. The sun beats hot and relentless into the earth, into him, but he doesn’t wipe at the sweat swelling across his brow. His sword feels like an extension of himself. The ground is solid beneath his feet, and he widens his stance to better hold himself against it. 

This is when the Templar lunges. 

Their blades clash together like an eagle collides into a rabbit. Altaïr’s front foot skids across the grainy earth from the force of the opponent’s blow, and he scowls, whipping the leg up to kick at the Templar’s knee. The man stumbles back, spitting hateful words in a foreign tongue. 

They prowl around each other for what feels hours beneath the baking heat of the sun. The Templar’s weapon is bulkier than his own, heavy in the fuller, with a pommel designed for bludgeoning. Altaïr wonders, fleetingly, how many bones it’s broken. 

Sweat runs down his spine with the oiliness of a fish, and he fights the impulse to shiver. 

How difficult it is, to anticipate what the enemy is going to do without being able to see the line of his gaze. The Templar shifts his hand on the sword’s grip, almost imperceptibly, but Altaïr notices. He darts forward, striking with the ferocity of a viper. The Templar stumbles back with the aggression of the blow, and Altaïr lashes out again, driving the man back and back and  _ back,  _ metal ringing loud and clear in the desert sky. 

The Templar’s defense won’t falter. 

Altaïr dances away, giving the opponent time to recover, and himself time to think up a different plan of attack. 

He’s interrupted by a white-hot burst of pain lancing through his shoulder. 

He bites back a cry, looking up just in time to see the Templar’s blade streaking toward his chest. He thrusts his sword down to block, ignoring the way his arm is now _begging_ him to stop, and catches the opponent’s sternum against his foot before kicking him back into the dirt. The Templar’s helmet thuds onto the earth loud enough to tell Altaïr that were this man to live, he’d at the very least have a severe head injury. 

Altaïr rams the point of his blade through the Templar’s belly with the sickening crunch of bone. 

An arrow has skewered him. Of that he’s aware. A second arrow dashes into the ground to his left, and he pulls his weapon out of the corpse’s gut, forcing himself to move despite the way his shoulder is screaming. 

His heart is pounding like a drum, he knows he shouldn’t be running when he has a wound like this, but he has no other choice - he darts into an alley, then down another, pressing himself up as best he can against a wall as he hears the guards who’d given chase sprint past. 

The Templar is dead. That was his only priority. Now, his only priority is to get back to Masyaf  _ alive.  _

He groans, snapping the head off the arrow jutting through him and yanking the tail of it out by reaching around with his other arm. The relief is immediate, even though his hand comes back blood-slicked and shaking. He lets out a heavy breath, pressing his forehead against the cool face of the building he’s hiding behind. 

* * *

  
  


Malik’s words are more caustic than the vinegar.

“You  _ idiot,”  _ he’s hissing, pressing the wet cloth over Altaïr’s wound. “Why did you not ride to Aleppo? Masyaf is nearly a full day’s journey from where you were!” 

Altaïr shudders against the sting of the antiseptic. His robes lay in a basin of cold water just outside Malik’s quarters, hopefully soaking out the red. “I… wanted to be here.” He swallows. “The wound was not life-threatening.” 

The look Malik gives him could sour milk. “Perhaps not the wound. But I’ve half a mind to kill you myself.” He pulls the cloth away, and it comes back only a little pink. The bleeding is slowing. “In the future, when you try to  _ convince  _ yourself that it is the skill of your blade which saves you, I pray you’ll see this scar and think otherwise.” 

“I do not think it is my blade that saves me.” 

“You would sooner kiss your sword than a woman,” Malik scoffs, waving his hand absent-mindedly. 

Altaïr huffs despite himself. Judging by the way the corners of Malik’s mouth tick up, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

They stay together long through the night; well into the morning. Malik, fussing over Altaïr’s shoulder, changing the bandages, applying fresh honey, hanging his undershirt and cowl and robe out to dry. Altaïr calls him a mother hen and he bristles. 

When the sun rises, they eat a breakfast of stuffed grape leaves, manakish, and dates. 

It is nice to feel cared for, Altaïr thinks. 

* * *

  
  


Sometimes, he wonders what would have happened had Al Mualim killed him. Would anyone else have seen through his ploy? He wants to tell himself yes, yes of course they would have, the Brotherhood is not  _ stupid -  _ but he cannot deny what he knows. 

Al Mualim did not kill him. And now, Altaïr realizes, he was not worthy of such a mercy. Not then. But mercy is hardly what was on the grandmaster’s mind. If Al Mualim had been serving the Brotherhood’s best interests he would have slain Altaïr where he stood. He supposes, then, in a way… he’s lucky the old man was a traitor. If only for the fact that it saved his own skin. 

In an alternate world, their mentor was never corrupted, and Altaïr has been dead for almost a year. In another, he  _ was  _ corrupted, and Altaïr was slain, and the entire world fell to the Apple. And in this world? 

* * *

  
  


“Malik. Do you think I am… cruel?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, why do you ask?”

“It sometimes feels as though all I am good for is killing.” 

_ “Altaïr.”  _

They stare at each other for a long moment. Malik’s eyes, dark and searching, scrape painfully across Altaïr’s face. He wishes he had his cowl on. 

“Once,” Malik begins, finally looking away, “I would have called you as much. But you’ve  _ changed.  _ You are not cruel. You do not kill out of pleasure. You don’t take the lives of innocents, you don’t cause purposeless suffering. You do what you do for the  _ right  _ reasons.” His hand, gently, carefully, lays atop one of Altaïr’s, and Altaïr tries not to pull away even though every bone in his body itches to. Malik’s palm is rough and warm and everything Altaïr has come to expect from him. “We fight to keep the world free. We kill, only because there are those who would jeopardize this. If not us, who else?” 

“It is a burden we did not ask for.” 

Malik’s hands pulls back, and he sits taller. “True. But it is one we chose, all the same.” 

* * *

  
  


Very rarely, but still too often, Altaïr thinks of his parents. 

His mother. Did she sound like the people in Acre? With an accent so soft compared to his own? He studies his reflection in rivers, in puddles, in blood - which pieces belonged to her? 

He sees his father in the cut of his jaw, the angle of his nose - though there are days he cannot even remember this. Worse, are the days he thinks of his father, and can conjure only the face of Al Mualim. 

The first thing he ever heard was the sound of his mother dying. Death is what he was born into. Death is what he knows. Just  _ once, _ could death be left to God? 

For he has had to watch all the people he’s ever loved die by someone else’s hand. 

* * *

  
  


Is there no other way? Is murder all that can be done to stop the Templars? It’s a useless question, he knows, yet he still cannot help but ask it. 

How many fathers and mothers has he slaughtered? How many children has he left orphaned, the way he was orphaned? 

He doesn’t think he could bear to know. 

* * *

  
  


_ “I hold here a list. Nine names adorn it. Nine men who need to die…You will find them. Kill them. In doing so, you’ll sow the seeds of peace. Both for the region, and for yourself. In this way you might be redeemed.”  _

_ “Nine lives in exchange for mine?”  _

  
  


In this world, Altaïr’s life was earned in exchange for ten other lives. Not nine.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
